The Watersplash

by Patricia Wentworth

  “And I was going to put her in the morning-room and go and let Mr. Arnold know,” she told Mrs. Deacon afterwards. “Gentlemen don’t like people walking in on them that way, but I couldn’t stop her.”

  “Nobody can’t stop Miss Mildred, not when she takes it into her head she’s going to do something,” said Mrs. Deacon.

  Arnold Random looked up, and wasn’t pleased. He had had an excellent lunch and a particularly good cup of coffee. An intolerable pressure had been lifted. He could sit back and be at peace. William Jackson had been a menace. He was a bad husband, an unsatisfactory employé, and a blackmailer. He was most satisfactorily dead. There was nothing to worry about.

  And then the door opened and Mildred Blake came in in her shabby old clothes, her head poking out in front of her and her eyes fixed on his face. She had her black collecting-book in her hand, and he supposed he would have to give her a subscription. It went through his mind to wonder whether all those pennies and sixpences and halfcrowns, to say nothing of larger donations, did really reach the object for which they were subscribed. It was a quite involuntary thought. Since all these sums were written down, they would have to be accounted for, but if there had been any way of getting round that accounting-well, he wouldn’t trust Mildred Blake not to avail herself of it. Hard as nails and too fond of money by half. Predatory-yes, that was the word-a predatory female.

  She refused the seat he offered her, drew a chair up to the table, and sat down, laying the black collecting-book on the corner between them. There was a hole in one of her cotton gloves. A bony finger poked through. With her eyes still on his face she said,

  “I have come to talk to you about William Jackson.”

  A faint uneasiness touched him. Ridiculous of course, because she couldn’t know anything. It lay between him and a man who was dead. Two men who were dead. Billy Stokes lost at sea, and William Jackson drowned in the splash within a bare half mile of his home. Mildred Blake would be getting up a collection for the widow. She certainly wasn’t losing any time about it.

  He had got as far as that in his thoughts, when she said,

  “I was in the church last night.”

  It hit him like a blow. He saw her sitting there, leaning forward over a corner of the table, her hand on the black collecting-book. The torn bit of the glove stuck up with a ragged edge. The bare forefinger seemed to point at him. Her eyes had a dark fire. He saw them recede into a mist. They burned there. She spoke, but he couldn’t see her any more. The words meant nothing.

  And then the first shock passed. The mist began to clear. Mildred Blake came back into focus again, sitting there with her hand on her collecting-book. He found himself saying,

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  In her deep, resonant voice she said,

  “You know perfectly well. I thought you were going to faint just now. You don’t do that for nothing. Would you like a glass of water?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Very well then. I was in the church last night. I came on from the Vicarage work-party. I was going to speak to you about the hymns and chants for Sunday week. I came in through the side door, and you were talking to William Jackson. I heard everything that was said.”

  He sat and looked at her. Her face showed a kind of fierce pleasure. He couldn’t think of anything to say. There wasn’t anything to say.

  After what seemed like a very long time he said,

  “He was drunk.”

  She nodded.

  “A little. Enough to put the words into his mouth, but not enough to make him invent them. He said your brother James made a later will than the one under which you inherit, and that he made it because he had become convinced that Edward was still alive. James said he had had a dream. Well, people had dreams in the Bible, didn’t they? Anyhow he made another will, and he called Billy Stokes and William Jackson in from the garden to witness it. Very inconvenient for you of course. What did you do with that will?”

  He put up a hand.

  “Mildred, I give you my word-”

  Her long nose twitched in a silent sniff.

  “You may not have known about it at first. Perhaps it wasn’t found until after the first will had been proved. It must have been a very nasty shock. Perhaps it wasn’t found until after Edward came back, and you thought you would just wait and see what happened. Billy Stokes was dead, and William might not think anything but that the will he witnessed was the one that had been proved. You didn’t know that he had been passing the window and had seen your brother James actually signing quite a different-looking will from the one he was asked to witness a week before James died. And you didn’t know that James had told him about having dreamed that Edward was alive. And not knowing those things, you might think it would be quite safe just to wait and see what happened. If the worst came to the worst and William put two and two together, you could have a search made and find the will.”

  Her eyes had never moved from his face. He had the horrified feeling that they could read his most secret thought. She went on.

  “When nothing happened, you began to feel safe, but you couldn’t have felt very happy when you heard that Edward was coming back as Lord Burlingham’s agent. And then that business in the church last night. It was a great pity you should have lost your temper. It showed William that you were afraid of him. And really, Arnold, you shocked me. Such language- and in church! I hurried away as fast as I could.”

  He made an impatient gesture.

  “It was enough to make anyone lose his temper. He was trying to blackmail me.”

  “Very foolish of him!” There was a mocking spark in her eyes. It came, and went again. “Very foolish indeed!”

  He said in a controlled voice,

  “What are you going to do?”

  “My dear Arnold, what can I do? I shall have to tell my story at the inquest.”

  He stared.

  “At the inquest?”

  “Naturally. I overhear a serious accusation concerning the suppression of a will, followed by an attempt at blackmail and a violent quarrel. I hurry from the spot. Early next morning the blackmailer is discovered drowned in a shallow pool quite close to the scene of the quarrel. Naturally it is my duty to inform the police. I suppose there is no need for me to tell you what conclusions they are bound to draw.”

  He sat there paralysed with horror. When you can see a danger approaching, something can be devised to meet it. There is thought, contrivance, a means of defence, a way out. But this had come upon him suddenly when his mind was relaxed, taking its ease after strain. It would not move to serve him.

  Mildred Blake nodded.

  “It is a pity I came into the church last night, isn’t it? I wanted to speak to you about the music. If I had gone straight home from the Vicarage, no one would ever have known that you murdered William Jackson.”

  The word was out. However many times it is spoken, it is always a dreadful word. It shocked Arnold Random into speech.

  “My God, no! I never touched him! Mildred, I swear to you I never touched him!”

  Her fingers tapped on the black account-book.

  “He fell of himself? And couldn’t get up again? In that shallow water? My dear Arnold!”

  His usual pallor was suffused by a terrible flush. The blood throbbed in his veins and beat against his ears.

  “Mildred, I swear-”

  “And if I believe you, do you think that anyone else will? If you suppress a will and take what is meant for somebody else you go to prison. William Jackson could have sent you to prison. That is what he was telling you there in the church. You knew it, and so did I. He was blackmailing you-his job back and a rise! And that was only the beginning of it-it wouldn’t stop there. And whatever he asked, you would have to pay-we both knew that. There was just nothing you could do about it except the one thing which you did. He had to go over the splash, and the stones were slippery after the rain. He had had too much to drink and he was unsteady on his
feet. I could see him swaying there in the church when you were swearing at him. Really a most disgraceful scene-quite a smell of beer-and such language! A sober man wouldn’t have drowned in the splash, but if somebody pushed a drunken man and held him down when he tried to get up again he could very easily be drowned, couldn’t he, Arnold?”

  He drew a long breath and sat back in his chair. The flush drained from his face, the drumming in his ears died away. His thoughts fell into place. He said,

  “You are wrong-I didn’t kill him.”

  “How many people, do you suppose, are going to believe that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Her black eyebrows rose.

  “Twelve men on a jury? Do you know, I doubt it.”

  He doubted it too. Accusation-threat-blackmail-the fury of the scene in the church-and William Jackson face down in a shallow pool, so very conveniently dead. He stared at her and said,

  “It’s not true.”

  She had been leaning towards him across the corner of the table. She straightened herself now, sitting back in the upright chair and folding her hands upon her knee.

  “If I believed you-” she said.

  He repeated what he had said before.

  “It’s not true.”

  She began to take off the torn right-hand glove in a slow, deliberate manner, looking away from him now, looking down at her own hand as it emerged. An ugly bony hand, not too well kept, the nails cut flat across the top-yellowish and bloodless nails. When the glove was off she put it carefully on the top of the collecting-book and said,

  “We have known each other a long time. One has a duty to the public, but one has a duty to one’s friends. If I could believe that William Jackson’s death was an accident-” She spoke slowly, dragging the words.

  “How can I make you believe me? I never touched him!”

  “If I could believe that, I might not think it was my duty to go to the police. I say I might not.”

  “Mildred!”

  “You did not kill him?”

  “No-no!”

  “You didn’t follow him down to the splash and push him in?” Almost past speech, he shook his head, struggling for words which would convince her, move her. Only the simplest came.

  “I never touched him. He went-I put the music away- then I went too. I never touched him.”

  After an agonizing pause she said,

  “Well, I believe you. I don’t suppose anyone else would, but on the whole I think I do. But if I hold my tongue I’ll be taking a considerable risk. I suppose you know that.”

  “No one will-know.”

  “I hope not, but there is always the chance. I mentioned at the work-party that I intended to go over to the church to see you about the music. It is just possible that someone may have seen William Jackson either going up to the church or coming away from it.”

  He said,

  “It was dark.”

  “Yes, it was dark. But there is that risk. I am not inclined to make too light of it. If I do this for you, I think there is something which you might do for me.”

  In his relief, he could only stammer,

  “Yes-yes-anything.”

  Her tone was precise and businesslike as she replied.

  “At the time of his death your brother Jonathan owed us quite a large sum of money.”

  “Jonathan!”

  “It can hardly be news to you that he was in the habit of running up debts.”

  “But James paid them-settled everything.”

  “He did not settle this one. You see, he had warned me against lending money to Jonathan. I had not taken his advice.”

  Arnold sat up straight. Two facts dominated his mind.

  James had certainly paid all Jonathan’s debts. To the last farthing.

  He had no choice but to accept this supposititious debt of Mildred Blake’s and discharge it. If he wanted to stop her mouth.

  He had, in fact, exchanged one blackmailer for another, and a more formidable one.

  CHAPTER XII

  The inquest was short and formal, and the verdict “Death by misadventure.” Mr. Ball read the funeral service, and the widow wept at the graveside in the old black coat and skirt which had been Miss Lucy Wayne’s second-best. Next week she would be going into service again, at the Vicarage. There was Joe Hodges and his wife wanting the cottage, and even if she felt as if she could stay there by herself, there were nearly all her savings spent, and better to work while she could and have the rent coming in to put by for a rainy day. Mrs. Ball might be a newcomer, but she was a real lady. Annie knew a real lady when she saw one, and if she had to go into service again she would rather it was up at the Vicarage than anywhere else. Only when you’ve had a home of your own- The tears ran down her ravaged face. She knew in her heart that she might not have had one for long. William had been a bad husband. He drank, he had begun to knock her about, and there was that girl in Embank. The cottage had been bought with her money, but it was in his name. She stood by the open grave and wept, and how many of her tears were for William, and how many were for her lost savings, and her lost hope, and her lost pride, she probably did not know herself.

  The inquest and the funeral were still to come when Clarice Dean rang up the south lodge just after lunch on Saturday. The telephone was in Miss Ora’s room, so she waited till she had seen Miss Mildred go down the street, and then slipped out to the telephone-box by Mrs. Alexander’s shop. It was soundproof if you were careful to see that the door had really caught, only of course you had to remember that you were on a party line, and that anyone might be listening in. Not that it mattered in this case. She didn’t mind who heard her talking in an intimate and affectionate manner to Edward Random.

  But it wasn’t Edward who answered from the south lodge, it was Susan Wayne. Clarice made a lively grimace. Was Edward never at home? She had tried for him last night, and as late as she dared. Of course Susan might be just officious, butting in and taking the call, when she was only a visitor in the house and it wasn’t any of her business. She said in her high, sweet voice,

  “Oh, Susan, is that you? How nice! Have you started up at the Hall yet?”

  “No-not till Monday. Did you want to speak to Emmeline?”

  Clarice allowed herself a little silvery laugh.

  “Well, no, darling. As a matter of fact Edward and I are fixing up a cinema, and I find I can get off tonight. Is he there?”

  “No, he isn’t. He’s frightfully busy, you know, taking over from Mr. Barr.”

  “But not on a Saturday afternoon! He simply can’t be-it isn’t civilized! When will he be back?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

  “Darling, you’re not being a bit helpful! I suppose I couldn’t ring him up at Mr. Barr’s?”

  “I shouldn’t think so.”

  “Susan, you really aren’t being any help at all! We do want this evening together so much, and it’s so frustrating not being able to get hold of him just when I’ve found I can have the time off!”

  “I’m sorry, Clarice, but I don’t see what I can do. He wasn’t back last night until a quarter past ten. He might be earlier tonight, or he might not-he just didn’t say. I can tell him you rang up.”

  Clarice gave that pretty, silly laugh again.

  “Well, it won’t be much good if he isn’t going to be in till midnight, will it? Look here, I’ll call up again after tea. We could still go over to Embank and see the big picture and have supper afterwards. What a nuisance it is having to work! It spoils all one’s best dates, doesn’t it?”

  Edward came home at half past four. Susan said,

  “Clarice Dean rang up.”

  “What about?”

  “You and a cinema. She says she can get the evening off.”

  “It’s more than I can.”

  “She’ll be ringing again after tea.”

  “Well, you’d better tell her-”

  Susan shook her head.

  “She’ll
want to speak to you.”

  “Say I haven’t come in.”

  “Miss Ora probably saw you go by. Besides-”

  “You cannot tell a lie? I remember you were really quite mentally deficient in that direction!”

  Nobody likes to be accused of a virtue. Susan’s fair skin showed a decided flush.

  “If people want to have lies told, I think they ought to do it themselves!”

  “Well, I should do it much better than you. I’ve had more practice.”

  She gave him her straight, candid look.

  “Have you?”

  His face darkened.

  “Oh, yes-a great deal-in the best of all possible schools. Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive, as the poet says! And I assure you it puts a fine edge on the practice when you know that if you do let the web get tangled it’s going to cost you your life. Atropos with the shears -and a fine clean cut across your weaving!”

  She said, “Don’t!” and could have bitten her tongue out. He was talking to her, really talking, and she must needs cry out because it hurt.

  And then all of a sudden he smiled that rather twisted smile and said,

  “All right, you shan’t tell lies for me, and I won’t tell them to you. I don’t know whether it’s a compliment or not, but for what it’s worth, I think it would probably always be easier to tell you the truth.”

  Clarice rang up at five o’clock, and this time she rang from the Miss Blakes’ sitting-room with Miss Ora and Miss Mildred lingering out the last cup of tea and stretching their ears to hear what was said. It was, of course, quite easy to hear what Clarice was saying. They were neither of them at all deaf. But to catch what was being said at the other end of the line in Emmeline’s little back room was another matter. An exasperating murmur in the throat of the instrument was all that they could distinguish. They would not even have known that the murmur was being contributed by Edward Random if it had not been for Clarice’s repeated use of his name.

  “Edward! At last! Darling, where have you been all day? I was to ring you up, and I simply couldn’t get you! Susan kept on saying you were out and she didn’t know when you would be coming in! Quite maddening! Do you know, I began to have just a very, very faint suspicion that she didn’t really want us to fix up that cinema.”